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Literature Text
Maybe Lovecraft was right,
As laying awake I shiver,
The invisible beastly faces,
That leer, unknowable, in the night.
He who said that the greatest sensation
Was that screaming terror that surrounds
Humans in the coal-black places
As they know they have no control over creation.
And while the good lie asleep in bed,
The sorcerers who were hidden escape,
Praising Gods beyond the soul’s capability,
To understand, as to be saved is to be lead.
While those who froth in madness scream,
Of things that were beyond their understanding,
Their dead eyes glaring back the reflections of eternity
And they know that nothing is as it should seem.
And from this blinding, choking bleakness,
One should find the reason to hope,
But no, all that is left is things beyond things,
Manipulating human stupidity and weakness.
As here a little child I stand,
On the edge of something so horrifically vast
That no man or woman can glare into it and return,
With soul intact from that dark land.
Fumbling around in the dark, men keep
No council to help them stay on the path,
Drowning in dreams we can finally see,
That visited Lovecraft in his sleep.
As laying awake I shiver,
The invisible beastly faces,
That leer, unknowable, in the night.
He who said that the greatest sensation
Was that screaming terror that surrounds
Humans in the coal-black places
As they know they have no control over creation.
And while the good lie asleep in bed,
The sorcerers who were hidden escape,
Praising Gods beyond the soul’s capability,
To understand, as to be saved is to be lead.
While those who froth in madness scream,
Of things that were beyond their understanding,
Their dead eyes glaring back the reflections of eternity
And they know that nothing is as it should seem.
And from this blinding, choking bleakness,
One should find the reason to hope,
But no, all that is left is things beyond things,
Manipulating human stupidity and weakness.
As here a little child I stand,
On the edge of something so horrifically vast
That no man or woman can glare into it and return,
With soul intact from that dark land.
Fumbling around in the dark, men keep
No council to help them stay on the path,
Drowning in dreams we can finally see,
That visited Lovecraft in his sleep.
Poem four out of my poetry booklet. It's dedicated to H.P Lovecraft, the horror writer I adore. I am terrified of it.
H.P Lovecraft and his works (C) Himself
The poem (c) me.
H.P Lovecraft and his works (C) Himself
The poem (c) me.
© 2008 - 2024 Jester-of-Dragons
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Nice